I was faking, too!
by Check it bonsly
Summary: Spoilers for His Last Vow! Sherlock has a nice chat with a friend and gets to play a lovely game, too. (There's a sequel up now!)
1. Chapter 1

**A/n: A short one shot created in lieu of recent plot twists, because the damned BBC are being evil and leaving us on one hell of a cliffhanger. Again.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock studied Moriarty closely. It was definitely him, not some random imposter. Though he had half hoped that that would be the case, this was undoubtedly the man that had shot himself of the rooftop. Which was confusing and infuriating in equal measure, as Sherlock had _watched _him die, damn it, and was none too pleased to see the criminal mastermind in the flesh again. God knows how well it had gone all the other times.

"Oh, were you faking?" Moriarty asked, his face displaying a mix of confusion and slight intrigue, his tone suggesting as much too. The look was completed by his widened eyes that irritated Sherlock to no end. "I was faking, too!"

At this he laughed, seeming not to care about the fact that Sherlock had swindled his way out of his end of the deal, 'possibly because he expected it?' and instead looked genuinely pleased that Sherlock was there. He probably was too, for his own twisted reasons. 'Probably wants to mess with me again.' Sherlock thought, watching the madman with extreme caution.

It had been surprising, to say the least, when only four minutes into his exile Sherlock had been called back. At first, he had no clue what it could possibly be for. When the plane had touched down, the only explanation he was given was "He's back", stated by John who positively exuberated confusion, true to form. Those words had provided momentary confusion, before it dawned on him. Moriarty. Moriarty was back. The thought had scared him slightly, though he would never admit it.

If Sherlock had thought Moriarty still alive, his first guess would have been that he was back. Mind you, if Sherlock thought Moriarty still alive, he would have never come back, or at least not been as public about it when he had.

And then naturally, true to form he had found him. And here he was. Thankfully, nowhere near the edge of a roof this time. 'I wonder what he'll have me pretend to die by doing this time?' He thought grimly, aware that Moriarty still had yet to announce his plans.

"What do you want?" Getting sick of the tension building, Sherlock took it upon himself to get down to business. The first question was suitably direct, assuming only that Moriarty had an ulterior motive for the confrontation, a safe bet in Sherlock's opinion.

"Oh, just a chat." Of course Moriarty lived to prove him wrong. "It's been such a long time since we last met, you see. I figured it was high time for a little catch up session, no?"

"I would've been glad if you had died on that rooftop." Sherlock deadpanned in all honesty, "how did you even do that?" he couldn't help but inquire.

At this, Moriarty pulled himself closer and held his hand to his mouth to speak in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, "Only if you tell first." He laughed again, gleeful in the knowledge that he had Sherlock stumped, ignoring his own shortcomings in the how-you-did-it knowledge department.

Sherlock growled aloud at this, unable and unwilling to reign in his frustrations at the man. Oh how he longed to reach for his neck and just _snap _it, it would be- no. He stopped his violent fantasies. 'This is getting me nowhere. Anyway, Moriarty would never come here without some kind of back up. I'd be dead before I even lunged for him.'

"What are you trying to achieve?" Sherlock questioned, anger still lingering. He pushed the remaining irritation to the side in an attempt to clear his head. 'I need to think about this logically. Getting all worked up is just going to make it unnecessarily hard to concentrate.'

"I believe I already told you," The sickeningly sweet tone revealed nothing and Sherlock struggled to retain his hard-won calm, "All I want is a chat. Make sure you're doing well, all that stuff. The last we saw each other we didn't part on the best of terms. If I recall correctly we both died! Of course I had to check you were still alive, not just some rubbish imposter. Good to see it really is you."

At this he paused, making a show of pretending to realise something. "Of course! I forgot to ask how you are! Can't be rude when I got you to come all this way to greet me, can I?"

"Go to hell." Was the simple response.

"I'm already there." The words came with complete seriousness, before his emotions did a complete 180, switching to complete joy in a matter of seconds. "This has been a great chat! We should do this more often!"

Moriarty took this as his opportunity to leave, waving goodbye in a casual manner as he walked off. "See you soon!" He spoke in the most cheerful of manners, but his words carried an ominous message. Moriarty was back, and he was not going to be wasting time.

Sherlock stood in the alley for a while after the other man left, thinking over the conversation but gaining no understanding of anything he could have been hinting at with his words. Eventually he sighed, giving up and walking off to return to 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n: Oops, my hand slipped. Several times. What was once a one shot suddenly had a half formed plot in my head and I couldn't help but write it. I apologise for nothing!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Did you miss me?" The question resounded in his ears. He couldn't stop hearing it, probably by now this was at least in part related to the lack of sleep. He had been unable to even entertain the thought for almost a week now, still puzzling over what Moriarty had said in their last meeting. Sherlock paced some more. It did nothing to quell Moriarty's incessant barrage on his mind, but he continued anyway in a vague hope it may calm his thoughts somewhat.

The fact that Moriarty had returned was the only reason he was even in 221B, rather than out in some random country, he had filed the name under unimportant and deleted it upon getting off the plane, but he would much rather be stuck there knowing that he would be alive for all of six months than stuck here, trying to catch the man that had defeated him so entirely that he had lost all credibility, however temporarily, and had been forced into taking the plunge off the hospital roof. The knowledge that at least Moriarty could never return had been a comforting, yet regrettably it seemed, false, thought.

The words he had spoken on televisions across the nation intensified, never actually increasing in volume, but invading his thoughts entirely.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me, did you miss me, did you miss me _did you miss me didyoumissmedidyoumissmedidyou-"_

"Stop!" Sherlock roared, grabbing the nearest item, one of the shoes he had discarded a few hours ago in another similar fit of rage, and throwing it vigorously towards the closest wall.

John Watson ducked under the soaring shoe, letting it continue down the hall out of the door, hitting the wall a few metres away with a dull thud, dropping back down unceremoniously. He turned away from the shoe, giving Sherlock a sceptical look. "Stop what?" He asked, not quite certain if he was the one his friend was so angry at or not.

His doubts were confirmed when Sherlock looked over to him, blinking in confusion. Clearly the man had not noticed anyone entering the room until now. "What?" He swayed slightly from the effort of turning around, only just managing to keep his balance (though it was a close call, with a few seconds of dangerous teetering in which John nearly ran to catch him several times) and making John sigh heavily. 'Why does he never just admit defeat and _sleep _when he's on a case?'

"Okay. I'm going to ignore the obvious 'when did you last sleep?' and skip straight into 'go to bed now you idiot'. Seriously, I think taking a few hours off would probably just help the case, not hinder it."

Sherlock looked at John for a few seconds, blinking again. Then, he fell straight backwards onto his sofa, fast asleep.

John, consulting babysitter as he was, placed a blanket over his unconscious form before heading into the kitchen to make himself a cuppa.

* * *

It was a few hours before Sherlock entered the waking world once more. He woke up slowly, taking time to stretch out after lying in the slightly uncomfortable position he was it for so long. This, as it transpired, was a mistake. With a grunt, Sherlock hit the floor, having dropped off the sofa mid-stretch. John, from his position in his armchair, laughed at his friend's expense.

Sherlock grumbled, saying something that sounded suspiciously like "Fuck off" in John's general direction. Any effect it may have had was ruined however, as the words were cut off by a gaping yawn.

"And a good morning to you too," John chuckled.

Sherlock continued hid half-hearted moaning, slowly rising and shuffling into the kitchen. It was now mid-afternoon, as he had been able to cleverly deduce by squinting out of the window, and the first point of order for the day was to make tea. He turned the kettle on, wondering without truly caring whether the liquid inside was actually water, and stood impatiently waiting for it to boil. Eventually it finished its task, and Sherlock poured the contents into the cup next to him, which somehow already had a teabag inside.

"So, what did you come here for?" He asked, grabbing milk from next to the decaying flesh in the fridge.

"Just to check up on you." John said, watching Sherlock return to a sitting position in the chair opposite, "Didn't hear anything from you for a week or so, so-"

"Mycroft sent you to check in." John's expression revealed that the deduction was correct. Sherlock sighed. 'All this babying is really getting annoying now. I preferred it when he didn't care.'

"I suppose you've already checked in with Mycroft by now, then?" It was a nod this time that confirmed it. Well, there went all of his remaining freedom. 'Stupid Mycroft. Stupid John. Stupid Mor- The internal dialogue was cut off by the ringing of a phone. Sherlock picked it up from the fireplace he had thrown it at earlier in the week and frowned at the lack of a number present. He got the feeling that his last unfinished thought would be coming into play soon.

"Did you miss me?" At this, Moriarty (for he was who had called) laughed. "I'd love to chat now, but I'm sure it can wait 'till later. I'm going to tell you a location. You will go there alone. Any communication with anyone about where you are going, and people will die. Got that?" The phone call abruptly ended there, and Sherlock tossed the phone aside again. 'Oh joy.'

"Goodbye John," Sherlock pushed his friend out of the room, not leaving any room for argument. John managed to wait until Sherlock reappeared, striding forwards while adjusting his coat collar, to question him.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

"Is it to do with the case?"

"No."

"Who was that phone call from?"

"Shut_ up _John." Sherlock slammed the apartment door behind him, ending the conversation. John stared at the door for a while before resigning to returning up the stairs and inhabiting his chair again, waiting for the detective to return. 'I hope he doesn't think that I actually bought that, because I know exactly where he's going.'

* * *

"Hello again! Good to see you so soon after we met last!"

Sherlock's glare managed to communicate perfectly his unconditional joy at being in the current situation.

"Ah, not so talkative today I see. Well, if that's how it's going to be, I'll just have to lead the conversation then, won't I?"

'Or alternatively you could shut up, I can go home and we can all forget that you ever existed.' Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sherlock couldn't help the petulant tone that his thoughts adopted.

"I met some of your fan club today," The casual words managed to gain Sherlock's immediate interest. "Lovely bunch, they are. I couldn't help but stop for a chat..."

Sherlock growled quietly as he continued, "And then one thing simply led to another and before you know it I have a great new game planned!"

The idea of playing games with a madman somehow didn't appeal too much to him, so Sherlock refused with an oh so polite "No." spoken in a completely flat tone.

"Fine" Moriarty said, dragging his sentence out, "Your loss. Quite literally, may I add, as refusal to co-operate will have... consequences."

And as a man with personal experience with a multitude of criminals, Sherlock could safely guess what 'consequences' could mean. "Fine. What's the game?"

"Well... to quote you, let's play murder." Moriarty gave a disconcerting smirk. 'How long has he been watching me for?' Sherlock was alarmed to say the least at the sudden revelation, but it would have to wait until he had finished playing Moriarty's 'game'.

* * *

It turned out that the first stage of the game had already been put into action. Moriarty had given 'gifts' to each of the members of the fan club. Apparently, one of these gifts were deadly. It had seemed to be a simple matter of removing each of the items, handing them over to the police and letting them deal with it, but when had life been so kind to Sherlock?

Never, that's when.

So naturally, there had been rules. He was allowed to tell only one person about the case, not a member of the police, and that person would be killed should the information spread elsewhere. He was not permitted to view the objects any more than a short deduction, namely: no microscopes, and he was only allowed to remove the dangerous object once he had proven that he knew what it was.

He had also been informed that a random member of the public was sat in an abandoned house somewhere with several guns pointed to their head, as it had been so kindly put, "Just in case."

All in all he supposed that it could have been worse, at least this meant that John would be able to tag along. 'Just like the old days,' He thought with a hint of wistfulness, 'back when me and John both didn't know who Moriarty was, and neither of us were in danger of death constantly. What went wrong?' the flashes of memory of the pool, the rooftop, and all Moriarty based crimes reminded him. 'Oh yes, it was _that._'

* * *

It was with this knowledge that Sherlock traipsed back into his flat a few hours later, not at all surprised to find John sat there reading a newspaper. Judging by the date and the expression of amusement on his face, this was one of the revenge papers, that he had taken to collecting around London, bringing back to the flat and using them on the fire.

John was predictably unsurprised when the situation was explained to him, having by now accepted that you just can't go a week without getting caught up in some sort of government conspiracy, serial killing or the like if you were an acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes.

"So, who exactly are the members of the Sherlock fan club then?"

* * *

**A/n: And now to come up with convincing deductions and crimes! Joy. Updates are likely to take a while because of this, sorry to anyone who hates waiting.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n: So finally another chapter appears. I planned for this to be the last but it seems it won't be.  
I could also continue it into a really long fic but that'd take even longer to write each chapter.  
We shall see...**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

It had been an easy task to narrow down on the search for the deadly object and get rid of quite a few possibilities for who was potentially being killed. For starters, it had to be one of the members of the fan club. Being as most people had assumed him dead, it was more of a small group of people in denial of the 'truth' than a proper club. They must have got a lot of joy out of telling all those that had ridiculed them that Sherlock was, in fact, alive, thank you very much, and they'd be taking that million pounds and expecting the video of them eating their hat within the week, if it's not too much bother.

Then he had worked out which of the members had been present to meet Moriarty. It turned out that the answer was significantly lower than expected, with only Anderson, the Strange One Who Thought He Loved Moriarty, and the one who had been wearing both a trench coat and deerstalker hat when they had met. (The last of the three was slightly creepier than the second, if only for the clothing choice.) They had been given car keys, a pair of shoes and a mystery item (they had yet to be told exactly what), respectively.

He suspected that it would be Anderson, just because he was the closest to him and thus the most likely of the potential deaths to affect him, but then again that was also a great reason not to kill him, as Moriarty was just that irritating and unpredictable kind of guy who loved confusion and a complete lack of understandable logic.

So, Sherlock investigated Anderson's present first anyway, just in case. The keys had no car to go with them, and were probably fake, if the fact that they were _plastic _was anything to go off. He had told as much to the fan club's leader, who had apparently not touched the gift since opening in case it was actually some sort of bomb or something. 'An amazing amount of common sense being shown for one so dull' Sherlock had been forced to admit, if only mentally.

"Well I don't think Moriarty would be trying to kill you with car keys," Sherlock lied, already thinking of several ways to do just that (admittedly all of these methods required some kind of physical contact with Moriarty, although the bomb idea _might _be less farfetched than first thought, otherwise), "You should probably just keep them. Never know when they could come in handy." He had left then, onto the Strange One.

_Here's a thought: remember those first cases I had you solve? -JM_

The message had arrived on his phone as he left Anderson, sparking memories of the kidnapped people, all with bombs attached. 'Well, how helpful. I'd bet that all of these objects will be tied into the murders we solved somehow.' Sherlock sighed at the vague unhelpfulness of the comment and hoped that John was having better luck on his end.

_Ps: Did you miss me? -JM_

Sherlock growled slightly at the addition, being forced into remembering the extravagant comeback and subsequent days of irritated thinking that the words had provoked.

* * *

'God, I hope Sherlock's having better luck than this.' John was sat, as he had been for some time now, listening to the ramblings of 'Strange One' and waiting for Sherlock to arrive and stop her.

When John had arrived, a good thirty minutes ago, he had been only halfway through his introduction when he had been rudely cut off.

"I know who you are! You're the one that hangs around with Sherlock. He's your friend, right? So, how did he do it then?" The blank look that she received was clearly taken as a prompt to continue talking, and talk she did. "You see, I think what really happened was..."

Somewhere around the part when Sherlock had "gazed lovingly into Moriarty's eyes, pulling him gently forwards into a kiss", John tuned out. 'Someone has too much time on their hands', his thought had been accompanied by a raising of the eyebrows as the explanation went into more specific detail about the kiss. ('Tongue battles' had been involved somewhere, disturbing John a fair amount.) What followed was a detailed description of what happened in the two following years, which conveniently left out an explanation of why Sherlock returned if his 'lover' was already with him.

"...and then when Moriarty came back to save Sherlock from his punishment, he had to pretend to hate him again and they've been planning to run away with each other and get married in secret ever since." Finally it was over, and John had his chance, however momentarily, to get a word in edgeways.

"Err... yeah. I'm pretty sure that didn't happen, actually. And he never told me how he did it either. I was too busy trying to..." John paused, remembering how he'd lunged for Sherlock, throttling him. On several occasions. Not to mention the bloody nose the detective had ended up with. 'It's his own bloody fault for having no tact.' John justified his actions to himself, "...make him apologise for being dead for two years."

At this, Sherlock entered the conversation. "I have a clue. An entirely unhelpful clue, but still." He seemed unimpressed. 'A message from Moriarty then.' John guessed, hoping that it hadn't been to vague, or irritating... or insulting. It was a hope that was soon to be crushed.

Sherlock then proceeded to show the text to John, who read it and thought back to those cases. The keys that Sherlock had mentioned could indeed be tied to the murder cases somehow. 'Clearly, there must be another way that the actual object that'll be used for the murder is tied into the cases or something.' He told as much to Sherlock, who smirked slightly at the idea, before turning to the woman in front of them and asking her about her present.

"Shoes? Just a pair of shoes? Anything more _specific _than that? Type, brand?" He questioned. Rather than receiving a straight answer, he was told in specific detail exactly how he simply _must _have survived, using almost exactly the same wording as she had with John. When she finally reached the end of her (many times repeated) spiel, Sherlock looked at her blankly, "Shoes." was his only response to the words, and when she left the room, looking slightly rejected, to go and get them, Sherlock turned to John with a grin.

"She do that to you too then?" John nodded.

"With almost the exact same wording. I wonder how many people she's told?" John confirmed. "More to the point, I wonder how many people actually _believed _her?" Sherlock seemed about to respond before a pair of shoes was thrust into his hands unexpectedly, causing him to turn his head back quickly.

"Ah. Trainers. Recognise?" The last statement was directed towards John, who nodded. It seemed to be the same trainers that had caused the death of Carl Powers, though it was likely that it was merely a replica that was in front of them. The clue was an unhelpful one after all. His suspicions regarding the ownership of the shoes were confirmed at Sherlock's next words, "Not the same pair obviously, far too new to be his even if he did care for them meticulously. The effort is, however, appreciated."

'Appreciated.' John snorted at his friend's word choice, 'yes, _thank you_ Moriarty, for your attention to detail when creating this case. It's things like this that really just sets you apart from the other criminals out there, you know? You show a true dedication to your work, it really is admirable. Truly an inspiration to us all.' John thought, looking at Sherlock as he did so. The man seemed to be holding back laughter, having noticed the expressions John displayed when thinking and interpreting them accordingly.

The little moment of shared amusement came to an abrupt end as they were both reminded of the other person in the room. "So why did you want to know? Are you trying to track Moriarty down so that you can finally marry him, settle down and have children like you've always dreamed?" Before another tirade detailing Sherlock and Moriarty's beautiful, yet tragic, love story could begin, John quickly said a vague goodbye before grabbing Sherlock's wrist and leading him out of the inevitable five wasted hours that would occur if either stuck around to listen.

* * *

"Please tell me you actually know what your gift was, at least." John was practically begging already, having been unable to gain anything other than answers that infuriatingly lacked any kind of detail, any signs of common sense, and even on occasion any words, leaving him faced with confused silence.

Sherlock had given up just three minutes into the conversation, sighing heavily and pointedly at John, who had suggested that he take a while to go and think over the previous two conversations. The three minutes after that leading up to the present had been slightly less awkward, as the person in front of him (still failing in the common courtesy of providing his conversational partner with a name of any sort) slowly got over his state of shock caused by the power of hero-worship and the presence of said hero.

"Uhh... yes." Getting into the swing of the conversation a little bit more, the rely was given with less hesitation, "it was a bit odd really. Just some disinfectant."

'Yes, a bit odd is definitely _one _way of putting it..' John jumped into the next question, not leaving time for any awkwardness to settle back in. "Did you use any of it?" He received a head shake indicating the negative and smiled slightly.

"I thought that maybe he'd done something to it. Moriarty I mean. Being as he was supposed to be some kind of massive bad guy or something."

'And finally the shred of common sense shows itself!' John cheered inwardly in victory, "Okay. I'll go and find Sherlock now, you just sit there. Or maybe get the present out. Yeah." With a quick wave and promise to be right back, John left the man's home in search of Sherlock.

* * *

"Are you absolutely certain that it is necessary of me to return?" Not in the most co-operative of moods, Sherlock stubbornly refused to leave the park bench he was sat on.

"Look, Sherlock" John began consoling him, "I know it was awkward the first time, just a bit-"

"Just a bit? Did you _see _him? Worse than that bloke with Molly. He wearing the _hat,_ John! The _hat!_ Why? And the coat, and the collar... you didn't find that creepy at all?"

John had to admit, it had been slightly unnerving standing next to someone trying their hardest to be an exact replica of your friend. Especially when your friend was with you and the one that was doing the replicating was stood still, mouth slightly agape in wonder at the sight of previously mentioned friend. Okay, a bit more than slightly unnerving. A lot more. But still, there were lives at stake, and an awkward situation should be easy enough to ignore to save a life. 'Or it _would _be, if not for the fact that it's Sherlock we're dealing with here...'

"Okay, yes, but think of the _case!_ You need to go and look at his gift, at least. It's disinfectant, by the way, I finally got that much out of him." John said convincingly, standing up to indicate that no more arguments were allowed.

With a slight glare towards his friend, Sherlock reluctantly got to his feet and made his way back to the house, dragging the journey into as long a one as humanly possible, shuffling his feet and stopping to deduce everything they came across.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock stared at the man who was presenting him with a bottle of average looking disinfectant. "Ah, our failed theory," John shot him a sharp look in response to this statement, so he changed the path of the conversation. "Well, it looks normal enough. Care to open it?"

The words were met with a look of slight shock and not-so-slight fear, but still the lid was slowly taken off to reveal the contents. Inside, there was just liquid. "If I had to guess," Sherlock said, inwardly cursing the fact that he did actually have to guess thanks to a certain 'no science' rule, "I'd say that that's disinfectant."

"No shit Sherlock," John looked at the contents sceptically, annoyed that there had been yet another anticlimactic clue. 'Can't it have just exploded in our faces or something?' He sighed, knowing full well that Moriarty would unfortunately never do something as obvious as that.

"And he said nothing when he gave it to you?" Sherlock questioned, irritation beginning to show in his voice.

"No." Again any chance of clues was shot down, "Why are you asking me anyway? Do you think he did something to it?"

There was a few seconds of awkward staring before both Sherlock and John shook their heads and denied the question vigorously.

John decided to wrap things up then, before the man got any more ideas about how potentially dangerous his gift was and somebody ended up dead as a result. "Well, that's just about all that we can do here, I think, so we should probably just head back."

* * *

Back at the flat, Sherlock had resumed his pacing while John had sat back on his armchair, both deep in thought about the case.

"Did Moriarty give any clues when you spoke to him last night?" John asked, more urgent now that they weren't doing anything. 'It was always more urgent when living people were at risk,' he remembered, thinking back to the case with the bombs the last time Moriarty had forced them to solve things for him.

"No. He wasn't in a giving mood, it seems."

John didn't respond, still trying to think of a way to set any of the gifts apart from the others. "The car keys didn't actually play a part in the crime, and that man wasn't even dead..." he thought aloud, "The shoes were the murder weapon, and the disinfectant was what I wrongly thought was a clue." It seemed to him as though the shoes were the most obvious option, but then again the disinfectant being wrong last time could mean that it was right this time. "This is getting us nowhere. We don't even know how he's going to kill them." Even as he said the words, John was thinking of ways that you could kill people with the different objects.

"Well we know that we could kill with the shoes," Sherlock joined the vocal thinking session, "Disinfectant... well he could send someone over to make him drink it" the thought of this actually occurring seemed not to bother Sherlock in the least, "and the car keys... get stabbed? Really small bomb? Use them to get him into the car they belong to and drive him off a cliff or something to that effect..." he realised that the last option would require the keys being real and put those options at the bottom of the likeliness ranking.

"I'm beginning to suspect that the clue may actually have been an attempt to make us even more confused." John confessed.

This received a sarcastic look of 'no_, really?_' and a reply of "Well, it was a very effective attempt." from Sherlock. "Anyway, there goes yet another thought that turned out as a disappointing waste of time." He returned to pacing, having stopped momentarily in the hope of an actual discovery that was created and quelled moments previously.

"Is there even anything else we could try?" He asked. 'Well, we haven't eliminated anything that's impossible yet. We need to find something that we can definitely rule out...' Sherlock stood still, deep in thought again.

"Something we can rule out..." Sherlock entered the mind palace, goal set.

"So, you need something that's impossible." It was Mycroft who stood there now, "Well, you were onto something with the murdering then. What _can't _you do with the keys?"

Sherlock started thinking. Mycroft only waited a few seconds before he launched back into the derogatory tone, "It's obvious, isn't it? You can't kill them!"

"You can..." Sherlock thought again, still just as (possibly more) confused, until: "Oh! You can kill them, just not directly. But you couldn't do that with the disinfectant either..." he trailed off. 'Does that mean that that's the answer?'

"Don't get ahead of yourself. The disinfectant could be a murder weapon, just less obviously." Mycroft chastised. 'Ah, it could be. The liquid in the bottle might... oh, probably shouldn't have got him to open it then...'

"Does that actually rule out the possibility entirely though?"

Mycroft may have been a figment of his imagination that was based purely on his thoughts, but Sherlock was pretty certain he'd got his personality down pretty well, as his brother looked mildly irritated at being slightly wrong ('so basically extremely flustered and dying of embarrassment') and shot back his response slightly faster than usual. "Well, it's certainly made it a less viable option. It's better than _you _managed, anyway."

Sherlock decided not to mention that technically, imaginary as he was, this version of Mycroft _was _Sherlock, so he'd managed to do better than himself.

The decision to add people to the mind palace was one he regretted daily.

"Well, now that you've provided me with your oh so helpful advice, care to make any more comments? Or are we reverting to being completely useless now?" Sherlock took the lack of vocal response (he had gained a glare instead) as a cue to leave and did just that, snapping his eyes back open on the real world.

"Ah, back again? Do you have anything useful yet?" John asked hopefully, having gained no leeway himself.

"Not exactly, but it's more likely that it isn't the car keys that..." He trailed off as his phone vibrated from his pocket and he picked it out.

"What is it?" John asked, knowing the obvious answer but still hoping that it wasn't another irritating false lead.

"It's another message." Sherlock stared at the phone, holding it out for John to read.

_That's the problem with geniuses, you see. -JM_

Sherlock pondered the text for a while, before standing in a sudden movement that jolted John out of his own thinking. "The problem with geniuses... come on John!" He shouted, already heading out of the room as he did so.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/n: In this chapter, people are talked to, conclusions are reached, and genius detectives are annoyed. This is also potentially the last chapter. (I'll continue it if anyone actually wants me to)  
If any more chapters_ are _written after this one, they shall undoubtedly be slow and irregularly updated.**

**But for now, enjoy!**

**Update: So guess who wrote a sequel? That's right, me! It's called The Game Is Never Over, and hopefully it'll be pretty epic.**

* * *

After his sudden realisation, Sherlock had exited the flat followed by John, who had still yet to get any insight into what the latest revelation might actually be.

"What exactly does a text saying 'the problem with geniuses' reveal?" John followed Sherlock, who had headed off in a seemingly random direction and refused to reveal anything regarding his reasons for being here.

"The problem with geniuses, John! That they overcomplicate things!" The outburst was loud enough to attract the attention of a few passers by, but Sherlock continued his march down the road unhindered, making a sharp left. 'I still don't see where he's going with this...' John thought, not unused to being oblivious to Sherlock's strange thought process but finding it irritating regardless. A vague understanding formed as he thought about it more, and he continued the thought process aloud.

"Right. So now we just go for the most obvious option, then" He took a while to ponder the options that this would rule out, but eventually drew a blank. "Wait. There isn't one most obvious option."

"What?" Sherlock too seemed to consider the options for a while, his sour expression revealing that he had reached the same conclusion as John. He paused in his hurried walking, nearly causing a collision with John because of the abruptness. "Oh for... well it rules out... disinfectant, at least." He had paused momentarily midsentence to think of what it had ruled out, and seemed quite pleased that he'd managed to think of something.

"I guess. But that's still two." An extremely helpfully pessimistic John pointed out.

"Well, it's time to go look for the obvious then!" Sherlock said, bouncing round to continue his quick march in the complete opposite direction. 'Just where was he headed, anyway?'

* * *

"Obvious ways to kill a man with car keys?" The new location had been Anderson, who didn't appear to be very pleased to have been disrupted from whatever he was doing to be dragged into a hypothetical murder situation. 'I wonder why that could be' John's inner sarcasm came through in his thoughts, mainly as he was still feeling slightly sorry for the inconvenience he was causing the man. "Are you _sure _that this is non-lethal?" He gestured to the keys, that he had apparently been keeping in his pocket, "Because you're acting awfully suspicious..."

Said man was now stood looking sceptically at the two, eyebrows raised. 'Great, he's onto us.' John thought, though he thought that it had taken him quite a while to cotton on, given the complete lack of tact Sherlock was applying. He also vaguely wondered if this realisation, however belated, had even been considered an option by Sherlock, who still seemed very much of the opinion that Anderson was stupid.

"Oh come off it, we're just checking. Never can be too cautious, can you?" It was the detective that responded, with the tone of constant irritation that came through whenever dealing with those he considered idiots.

"Yes you can." Anderson spoke again, his flat tone conveying excessive amounts of exasperation. 'Quite considerably, I guess,' John had to admit, 'as he _is _the one being potentially murdered.' He may have been speaking generally rather than just in regards to the current events, but that didn't mean John agreed with his words, however, especially the next ones. "It's called paranoia."

'Paranoid my arse,' He thought, seething slightly by now, 'three seconds with Sherlock and you're a shoe-in for a murder target.' John was a living example of this, having been on the hostage end of many kidnappings himself.

"Yes, okay. But still... nothing else that would make you an obvious target for murder? At all?" Sherlock continued the vain effort to glean more information out of him.

"Presuming that you already thought of the whole 'I know Sherlock Holmes' thing, yes." Now John laughed slightly, and not just at the clear sarcasm in his words. 'It seems that even Anderson recognises the threat of working with Sherlock.'

"Okay... well, we'll be seeing you then! Bye!" Apparently having seen how any more attempts made to get any closer to the truth would end in failure, Sherlock took it as a cue for an abrupt departure.

"Wait!" Anderson called after the retreating figures, still not content in the answers he himself had gained. "Oh for..." He realised that they were already out of earshot (or, they were just ignoring him, which was an irritatingly likely option) and he wasn't going to be told anything more about the crime, 'It has to be Moriarty up to something again', until it was solved.

* * *

After the failure with Anderson, Strange One had been the only option as far as the obvious-victim-information-gathering scheme was concerned. And so both Sherlock and John were back at her house, and were pleasantly surprised to find that after a whole ten minutes of being there, the shipper had yet to divulge into the strange, strange world of her Sheriarty dreams. The three were sat in her living room, Sherlock and John on one side and her on the other. It was a relatively small room, so when Strange One leant in she practically touched noses with Sherlock. She was doing this now, thinking intently as she hung off the end of her armchair.

"Ways I could be on Moriarty's hit list..." Since arrival she had been too busy pondering this question to be able to be creepy. Unfortunately, this lull in the insanity was to be short lived. "He could think that I'd get in the way of your love... jealousy, the fact that I know the truth and I'm not afraid to tell it..."

"No, I'm pretty sure those ideas are just things that'd make him want you alive. For his own amusement." Speaking of amusement, John was finding this far too funny for Sherlock's tastes, so he shot a glare in the blogger's direction to communicate this. The message seemed to have got across, as John started looking more serious and continued with: "Got anything actually serious to add, or have you run out of ideas already?"

"I _am _being serious! I bet my guesses make about as much sense as yours!" Genuine offense seemed to have been taken at the accusation, as she leant back slightly while opposing the idea defensively.

'Well being as we don't have any, I guess she's right, but still...' John refused to accept her crazy theories and decide that enough was enough and they may as well give up now. "Okay. Let's just mark this down as an epic failure and go back to wallow in despair over our infuriating evil genius problems."

Sherlock frowned at this lack of determination. He raised a hand to his face absently, staring off at the opposing wall with a detached look. 'Ah, good. He's thinking.' John approved. 'Either that or the colour blue just really interests him,' He followed Sherlock's line of sight as he thought this, also looking at the blue-painted wall. The detective's expression was still thoughtful when he spoke next. "No..." The word trailed off as he stared at Strange One again. "I'm sure there's something else here..."

John scoffed, 'So much for that idea then,' he made to get up and leave again, coaxing Sherlock along with his words. "Her only ties to obviousness are the shoes. And they're probably not poisoned, I think we'd have noticed the effects by now."

"Unless he _didn't _poison the shoes..." Sherlock had _the look_ again, signifying the verge of discovery.

"In which case it's Anderson that he's after!" John prompted, hoping to get his point across quickly so they could leave.

The frown deepened, Sherlock disagreeing still. "No." He too was unwilling to sacrifice his theory, "I'm sure it's this. I just need to _think!_" He pressed his fingertips to his temples in frustrated concentration.

Unfortunately during this debate the pair had failed to consider one vital thing:

"Wait. Is Moriarty actually out to kill someone?" They weren't the only ones in the room.

'Oh. She's still here. Oh god.' Both John and Sherlock ceased arguments to stare at each other for a few seconds of tense silence, both resembling a rabbit caught in the headlights quite excellently. 'And she'll find out, and Moriarty'll kill someone and we're doomed now,'

"N-no!" Sherlock was the first to stammer out a denying excuse while John continued his silent breakdown, "What gave you that idea!"

John, having relaxed now that action was beginning to be taken, decided to jump on the calming down bandwagon and placated the woman further. "Seriously stop. He's not out to get you. As you said, he's got no reason to!"

"Why does he need a reason? He's Moriarty! He does what he wants!" Sherlock seemed quite excited as he said the words, and John glared at him as he did. 'Great work getting her to think she isn't going to be murdered there Sherlock, absolutely fantastic.' He thought sarcastically, still glaring.

"Yes well what he wants is to not kill y-" Any further attempts were stopped in their tracks by Sherlock, who seemed to have finally had the reason he had been looking for dawn upon him. 'Perfect bloody timing. Couldn't have done it any better if you tried.'

Luckily, Strange one seemed content with the awkward excuses and had relaxed visibly. She had also stopped listening and just watched the two in action, slightly awed at the chance to watch Sherlock when he was solving something, as he connected the dots and got to the answer.

"Wait." Epiphany reached, Sherlock rose from his chair slowly, "Yes, that's an idea..." Suddenly, he jumped up and ran off, leaving his friend behind, still slightly bewildered by the turn of events. Said friend began making a hasty apologetic goodbye before Sherlock's patience wore out and he yelled from the doorway to chivvy him along.

"Come along John!"

* * *

_Do you even plan on killing anyone? -SH_

_Of course! That's half the fun of it. -JM_

_P.s: You might want to be careful what you say... that was a close call. -JM_

"Right, good. Definitely not that then." Immediately after returning to 221B, Sherlock had texted Moriarty in regards to the case. The response (very fast, almost as if it had been expected) seemed to have proven Sherlock's theory false, but he still seemed pleased nonetheless.

"Wow, another incorrect theory!" John had decided that if Sherlock wasn't going to be motivated enough on his own, matters would have to be taken into his own hands. "There are lives at stake! As I've mentioned before, that means you have to take it _seriously!_"

"I am serious." Sherlock waved John off, "I was just checking... anyway, we've got a motive. Now we just need a method."

Unable to recall any mention of this subject since they had got back, John asked: "Motive? What motive?"

This made Sherlock smirk ('Smug little git'). "Exactly- there isn't one. He did it simply because he could. Very him, I must say."

John took a moment to consider this. "Okay. So how is he killing someone with a pair of trainers if not with poisoned shoelaces?"

Sherlock had a moments silence there to think, before realising. "Well, just because the shoelaces aren't poisoned, it doesn't mean the shoes themselves aren't" On a roll with the ideas, he continued, "And, if we're going to really stick to the obvious factor... a bomb."

"A bomb?" John's sceptical look was met with a nod of confirmation. 'How's he going to fit a bomb in a pair of trainers that's small enough to go unnoticed?'

"Well, if she had it with her when it went off it wouldn't need to be that big. You would be able to kill her with a small bomb at a close enough range." Sherlock answered John's question without him having to voice it. Again there was a lull in the conversation in which the ideas were processed.

"Okay." John eventually conceded. "But still, are you sure? It really does seem too easy."

"That's the point he's trying to make!" Sherlock stared at John, disbelief showing through the exasperation, "God, John, haven't you been listening at all?"

'Well then!' John thought, trying not to get offended by Sherlock's words, without much success. To him it seemed like a ropey motive, if one at all. Even if it was the sort of thing Moriarty would do, just inconvenience and trick them. It was at this point that John began to understand the logic being applied, and he displayed this by working with Sherlock's idea. "Right then. What do we do now?"

Sherlock smirked his patented I'm-about-to-do-a-thing smirk. "I'm going to send a text."

He picked up the phone again, typing quickly before setting it back down, staring intently at it as though that would make the inevitable response come faster.

_The Strange One, bomb in trainers. -SH_

"How long d'you think it'll take to-" John managed to get halfway through the question before the buzzing of a new text stopped him. 'Okay. That was quick.' It was slightly creepy just how little time was between the sending of the text and the receiving of the new one. 'Is he just sitting around waiting for these texts or is he usually this fast a responder?'

_Okay, you can send in the authorities now, if you want! -JM_

* * *

John and Sherlock stood in the home of Strange One, about an hour after receiving the confirmation to get help. Sherlock had gone to get the police, while John went straight to the house to get everyone out. They had reconvened here after the bomb removal was complete and were currently alone, with everyone else involved stood outside giving statements and other trivial, unnecessary details. 'We all know it was Moriarty. Can't they just cut the time wasting and go looking for him?' Sherlock stared in the general direction of the police, willing them to gain some competence.

It was a vain effort.

John, meanwhile, looked at the now harmless pair of trainers, mulling over the case they'd just solved. "Don't you think it's a bit odd?"

"What's odd? We found the bomb, got rid of it, saved Strange One..." Sherlock listed the events, not understanding where John was coming from.

"No! Not with this situation," It was John's turn to be exasperated, sighing as he rephrased it. "The text he sent. Moriarty. He never said you'd got it right."

"Well he certainly implied it then." Still Sherlock didn't see the problem, still thinking that his friend was worrying over nothing.

"That's the thing!" John shouted now, other attempts at getting his point across failing. "What if we didn't get the _whole _truth, and there's still something to solve here."

"Wait. That would mean..." Sherlock paused, frantically puling his phone out and typing a message.

"Mean what?" John watched as the text was sent, irritated that he didn't know what was on it.

_Did you just poison me? -SH_

Another tense few seconds later and the reply was received.

_Ha, you got me! Depends on how long you've been there. Less than 20 minutes and you'll be fine. Can't have my best detective dying on me, can I? No fun in that! -JM_

"Ah." Sherlock looked up, "John, we may need an ambulance."

"What are you-" He was cut off by Sherlock grabbing his hand and running out of the room, still providing no explanation.

* * *

Sherlock was once again stood in a dark street, next to the man who had caused the whole mess. The poison incident had only been cleared up recently, with the house having been finally deemed safe enough to enter an hour previous. The trainers had also been removed, and probably destroyed.

"The hostage?" Sherlock asked, tiring of the silence forming between the two which gradually increased in awkwardness.

"Ah!" Moriarty gasped, a look of realisation on his face, "I _knew _there was something I forgot. Yes, I kind of... shot them. Getting too boring you see, can't have that." The fact that he had murdered someone was unsurprisingly one which he was unconcerned with. "Oh well, I'll send flowers to her funeral or something. And don't worry, I'll make sure to take care of the next one much better."

Sherlock's response was to grunt noncommittally, having learnt to expect such actions.

"So I hear everyone's going to make a full recovery? How nice." Moriarty's tone was the type which one used to discuss the weather with. Sherlock's anger flared at his apathy. It was understandable not to care for the others, but John had been there too.

"Yes, no thanks to you." He said curtly, causing Moriarty to smile widely.

Moriarty moved in closer, now standing directly in front of Sherlock, who had no choice but to look into his eyes. They brightened as he widened them, speaking the next words. "Well, it seems your precious blogger is out of action for a while, eh?"

This was, unfortunately, true. Standing and breathing in the air hadn't exactly done him any good, and he'd been there quite a while, so John was currently incapacitated. He was definitely going to be fine, but the idiots at the hospital had insisted on keeping him trapped there. Sherlock suspected that it had been done to stop John from getting in any more trouble while helping Sherlock in cases, which was a ridiculous idea.

"Again, no thanks to you." Sherlock watched Moriarty, who was still acting cheerful. The man moved out of Sherlock's face now, and despite the anger at both John's predicament and Moriarty's invasion of his personal space, Sherlock couldn't help but feel slightly relieved, and not only because the other had backed off. 'Thank god that that's the end of the game...'

"I hope you don't think this means I'm letting you slack off. Just because you're a man down doesn't mean you get a break." Sherlock cursed under his breath at the words, Moriarty having seemed to have read his mind. "As you say, the game is never over."


End file.
